


Know That I Do

by Avera_Illisa



Category: Sanders Sides, Thomas Sanders
Genre: Deceit is really creepy here, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Insecure Roman, Manipulation, Sad Roman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 20:38:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13644006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avera_Illisa/pseuds/Avera_Illisa
Summary: "You...you care for me." He'd smiled then; a small, tentative thing, so gentle it could be blown away in the breeze."Of course I do, your highness." A yellow-gloved hand snaked forward, sinuous like a viper, a predator poised to strike. But he knew that the prince would only see warmth, a companion reaching out, a friend offering comfort. "The others may not, but I do. I always will."Deceit, as per his name, lies.Sometimes he tells Roman the things he needs to hear.And sometimes the things he doesn't.





	Know That I Do

**Author's Note:**

> (A quick warning to everyone; Deceit is emotionally manipulative in this fic. If you feel uncomfortable with that stuff, pls don't read this!! )
> 
> I really wanted to write something Deceit-related after the recent sanders sides came out, and the way he interacted with Roman - and Roman's subsequent response to his interaction - left me a little unnerved; hence, this fic. I really like the hc that as a Dark Side, Deceit is powerful enough to appear whenever and wherever he wants in the mindscape regardless of whether he's allowed or not. I also like the hc that, unlike Virgil, who protects Thomas, Deceit actually protects Thomas's ego and self-esteem i.e. Roman. So I kinda implemented both concepts into the fic.
> 
> Also, this is set some time before Accepting Anxiety, so Roman hasn't really befriended Virgil yet or knows his actual name.

In the end, they'd been the ones to make it easy. Perhaps, had they wished to wash themselves of blame, they'd have found other things to point fingers at - his manipulative, snake-like ways, how he'd always find cracks in armor to pick at, exacerbate until a raw, vulnerable skeleton was all that was left to use. But if they cared to look deeper, they'd have seen the cause ran deeper than just that. The barbs. The insults. Their dismissal of his ideas, disdain at his input. Perhaps he'd been the one to pick at the cracks, but they'd been the reason they'd ever opened at all. The snake hid in the grass for easy pickings; it would not waste its time on prey it knew were to strong for its fangs. 

So when he'd first felt a disturbance tugging at the heart of a certain prince, he'd been the first to answer its call. 

He'd glided into the throne room where he knew Roman had sat himself, emerging silently from a corner like wisps of smoke. From there he'd spied the royal slumped upon his gilded chair, face drooping like a dying flower, his golden edges peeling. Even the jewels studded into his extravagant chair seemed to have dulled in solidarity, and from the invisible tether that bound them he could sense the princely trait's pain; the frustration, the well of self-doubt and loathing that yawned ever deeper after each session his ideas and input went unheard or dismissed. He could taste that pain like the tang of fine wine. Should he cultivate it, it could turn into something extraordinary indeed.

So he'd smiled to himself, adjusted his hat, and strode towards the felled prince with an air of easy grace. His capelet shifted around his shoulders like shadows shorn from the night, then sown together to outfit something far darker than its skies. He'd worn his smile like plated gold and his care like a guise. 

"My prince," he'd spoken with a light bow, gloved hands placed respectfully before him, "why do you look so down? What troubles ail you that I may assuage?" 

Instantly, the prince was on his feet and had unsheathed his sword in a breath. He'd thrust the point defensively at the intruder's face, distrust writ into his polished features. As weak and fragile as his heart may have been, there was nothing vulnerable in his swordplay, his reflexes. If only the same could've be said about his instincts.

"Who are you?" he'd demanded, eyes gleaming with the same polished edge of steel. He'd wielded his blade without so much as a tremor, and likely would consider running him clean through with it with even less. He felt the stirrings of a true smile tug at his lips. The prince certainly didn't lack for spine. If he could applaud nothing else, he could at least give him that.

Regardless, there was still the present issue of having a blade jammed at his face to resolve. He raised both gloved hands, palms forward, in a gesture to placate, shedding his amicable smile for something a little more troubled. "Your highness, I did not intend to startle you," he explained, choosing his words with infinite care, "I only wished to know why you looked so glum." 

The prince's grip on his sword did not falter in the slightest. "And why is that?" he demanded still. His brown eyes were stormy, the color of peeling bark. They darted around the room in wariness. "How did you get in? I have guards posted at all my doors." 

He'd smiled pleasantly, then. "I did not bring harm upon any of them, if that's what you're thinking, my prince," he said. "I merely teleported in." 

Now those eyes were as dark and bitter as burnt coffee. "How?" he'd gritted out, fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword, "These are my private chambers; no one else is allowed in here, and I made it so. Not Logan, not Thomas, not even Patton unless I give him permission first. There's no way an outsider like you could've gotten in." 

His smile had only widened at those words. "Ah, but we're connected at a much deeper level than they are, my prince," he'd crooned, voice as thick and sweet as caramel. "That's why I was able to come in here, why I was able to sense your pain. And why I care for you. Deeply." 

He watched gleefully as Roman's eyes widened, cycling through various emotions: confusion, mistrust, vulnerability...and yes; there - hope. It had been good of him to come here when he did; when the prince was still reeling from a particularly bad rejection or jab from his alleged 'friends'. Now he was desperate for anything - the barest scraps of attention he could feed him, the smallest of compliments, the assurance that someone cared. He supposed it was likely that the others didn't even realize the impact their words had on the prince. But did it matter? Whether it was a dismissal or a particularly harsh barb, the result was still the same - and he had only them to thank. 

Still, he could see the lingering remnants of mistrust warring with Roman's desperate longing for care. "Who are you, then?" 

He continued to smile - a warm, sunny grin. Something that was shared between two friends, not strangers. It didn't even seem to matter to Roman that it was as false as though he'd slipped on a plastic mask - the prince seemed to lean towards it all the same, a flower kept so long in the dark it'd been starved of the light it needed. He motioned to himself with a flick of a yellow-gloved wrist, a gesture of panache that he knew the prince would appreciate. "You may call me Deceit, my prince." 

Instantly, the blade was back up. Deceit would've started at this had he not predicted the reaction. "Then you - you are one of the Dark Sides!!" Roman bellowed, hackles raised. "Do not claim to know me, you villain!!"

A lesser man might've cowered before a blade and its furious, righteous leader. But Deceit had found the cracks in the armor; the chips in the prince's gilded edges. He'd spied the hope that had blossomed like a flame, however small, in a heart that had been hollowed-out by cruel words and self-doubt. A hope he could see persisted still. 

"My prince, please listen to me," he said. "It is true I am what you call a Dark Side, but I mean you no harm. In fact, I do quite the opposite. I compel Thomas to lie when the situation demands it; when I know it is the best solution. All the times Thomas had missed a promised outing with a friend, forgotten to complete an assignment, forgotten a birthday or anniversary...do you really think telling the truth would've been the best course of action?" He smiled when he saw Roman muse over this, his teeth worrying his upper lip. Felt the cracks open wider. "Of course not. They'd have grown to think ill of him; believed him to be untrustworthy, someone unable to be depended upon. And ultimately that would've eaten away at his self-esteem, his ego... _you._ " He felt his smile inch wider. "I do what I do to protect Thomas. I do what I do to protect _you."_

A look of realization seemed to flower over the prince's face. Hesitantly, he lowered his sword. "You...you've been protecting me? This whole time?" 

"Of course, my prince." 

The admission seemed to strike him dumb. Deceit watched, elated in the strength of his words, as a thousand different emotions seemed to flit across his face once more. The mistrust had died, and in its place something much different had roared into life - awe, joy, and of course, hope. It was a spark that had burst into a flame, high and roaring, an inferno that could not be tamed. Deceit watched it sear a place for him in his heart where three other people had occupied before. 

"You...you care for me." He'd smiled then; a small, tentative thing, so gentle it could be blown away in the breeze. 

"Of course I do, your highness... _Roman._ " A yellow-gloved hand snaked forward, sinuous like a viper, a predator poised to strike. But he knew that the prince would only see warmth, a companion reaching out, a friend offering comfort. "The others may not, but I do. I always will." 

Roman eyed the hand, his posture drawn, his lower lip trembling dangerously. Then all at once it seemed a dam had broken and the tears spilled forth. He dropped his sword with a resounding clatter and took his proffered hand; accepted the embrace that followed. Deceit allowed the wounded prince to cry into his shoulder, smoothing a hand down his back, whispering platitudes. 

"I just don't understand," he'd slurred, his voice clogged with tears. "What am I doing wrong? Why don't they accept any of my ideas, any of my thoughts? What good am I as _creativity_ if I can't even produce a decent creative thought?" 

"There, there, Roman," he assuaged, patting his heaving back in soothing motions. "They simply don't understand your creative genius; how you're extraordinary mind works. All they see is an idiot in a prince's costume; they never cared enough to look deeper, to see anything else."

Roman sniffled, tucking himself deeper into the hold of his arms. "I'm not-" he started between heaving breaths, "I'm not-not smart. Not at all. _El princedo es stupido._ Logan said so. And he's never wrong." 

Deceit pulled his face into an expression of mock indignation. "Wha-how dare he! Using Spanish - the language you love - against you like that. He's no better than Anxiety with all his taunts and insults. I bet he just enjoys feeling better and smarter than anyone. You're best not listening to him at all - or even better, not associating yourself with the likes of him ever again. It's clear he doesn't care for you." 

He felt the prince tremble in his arms. "He...he doesn't?" 

"Why, of course he doesn't," Deceit smiled, savouring the lies in his mouth like a gumdrop. "No one would ever say such cruel words and still call himself a friend." 

Roman let out another pitiful sob. "I..I thought as much," he eked out, chest still stuttering from his bout of crying. "I-I mean, I hoped it wasn't true...I hoped, maybe, he still cared, and was-was just sort of teasing, you know?" His eyes welled up with fresh tears. "I..I should've known. Logan doesn't do teasing. I should've known." 

Deceit patted the distraught prince gently on the back; smoothed back the tangles in his dark hair. "It's alright, my prince," he crooned. "It's no fault of yours. Sometimes it's difficult to tell people's intentions, especially when you're so eager to be loved, to please. I mean, look at Morality." 

Roman stiffened under his hands. "P-Patton?" he stuttered out, eyes wide and disbelieving. "What do you mean?" 

"Well, its obvious he doesn't much care for you to, hmm?" Deceit smiled. It was a snake's grin - mouth drawn up into a sneer, curving into the iridescent scales that ran down one side of his face. Even his one golden eye seemed to be glinting in elation; the triumphant flash of a viper's when they've coiled around their prey, fangs bared for the kill. He could taste the prince's growing anxiety and pain on his tongue, the delicious tang of wine he'd cultivated into something extraordinary. He only had to go for this final attack. "I mean, its true he never calls you names or argues against your points...but when the others do so, how often does he intervene? Is apathy really all that much better than hate, my prince?" 

Roman's head jolted up indignantly from his shoulder, face pinched in disbelief and pain. "No, no! That's not right. He - Patton - he does care. He says my ideas are good! He brings me supper after late-night quests! He -"

"He _pities_ you," Deceit interjected, shaking his head in mock sorrow. "He only does those things because he feels bad for you. If you weren't treated so badly by Logan and Anxiety, he wouldn't pay you any mind at all. There's no real care here, my prince; only pity." 

"I.." Roman eked out weakly, his stance rigid. Deceit could see how desperately he searched for a way to deny the claim, to assure himself that someone between the four of them felt something other than disdain or apathy for him. Could see how horribly he was failing. "I.." 

"There, there, Roman." The kind facade was back, a mask he slipped on at leisure and could shed as easily as a snake does its skin. "It's okay to cry; I'll be here for you." 

And cry he did. Loudly, explosively. Deceit cradled him in his arms, whispering words of encouragement - honeyed words laced with a viper's poison, fabrication he'd cloaked in truth's pleasant guise. The prince clung onto him, knuckles white against his pale skin, his throat choked with tears. His face was smothered in the other's capelet.

"You won't..." he managed to cough out, his broad shoulders trembling; "..you won't leave me, right, Deceit? You're..." his speech dissolved into another bout of heaving sobs. "...you're all I have left."

The snake smoothed back his hair, drinking back the fruits of his labour, his triumph. "Of course I won't, my prince," he murmured soothingly into his ear, smile trickling into his words. "I'll stay here with you forever. You will never need anyone else. No one will ever hurt you again." 

He leaned in closer, engulfing the prince further in his arms. Tasted the sweet bite of a lie on the tip of his tongue: "Know that the other's hate you. Know they don't care." 

**"But know that I do."**


End file.
